


Sun, Moon, Stars

by wilderswans



Series: Widomauk 30 Day NSFW Challenge [10]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Banter, Canonical Character Death, Doggy Style, M/M, Please Don't Hate Me, Porn with Feelings, eeyyyy they finally do it, it'll get better I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 15:36:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16705129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilderswans/pseuds/wilderswans
Summary: “Is this all right?” Caleb asks, for the seventeenth time.Not that Molly’s counting, or anything.(Day 10 of the 30 Day NSFW OTP challenge: Doggy Style)





	Sun, Moon, Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Today I am grateful for Caleb FINALLY getting his dick in Molly. (Only took them 10 fics to get there!)  
> As for the rest, well. I'm sorry. You all have to suffer as I suffer. 
> 
> This was written with Depeche Mode's The Sun and the Moon and the Stars in mind, because it's not a Wilderswans Widowmauk Fic(tm) without Depeche Mode.
> 
> And, as always, you have my sincere thanks for reading and taking the time to leave kudos and comments.

“Is this all right?” Caleb asks, for the seventeenth time.

Not that Molly’s counting, or anything.

He’d roll his eyes but Caleb’s long fingers twitch, and the sensation from where they’re buried in him makes Molly gasp and sweat rather than summon any sort of exasperation.

Besides, Caleb is - he’s attentive. And mindful, so mindful, of the potential to hurt, which is why he’d lubed up and started with one finger, carefully stroking at Molly’s rim when every fiber of Molly’s greedy being roared to be fingerfucked into the next plane.

Molly stops himself, releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and feels himself relax fractionally more around Caleb’s fingers.

It’s a two-way street, Molly reminds himself. He may be all right, he may be more than all right, but if Caleb wants to set the pace, then he’ll happily follow.

“This is all right,” he says, because he oughtn’t leave Caleb too long without solid confirmation. He shifts his weight from knee to knee, hearing more than feeling the mattress creak beneath him, and drops his head to his forearms as Caleb’s fingers slowly corkscrew as they’re withdrawn briefly, before slowly pushing back in. The sensation pulls up gooseflesh, beads sweat on Molly’s forehead and in the small of his back. “Feels good,” he adds, because it does.

The fingers withdraw completely this time, leaving Molly gasping and curling his toes into scratchy bed sheets, before he hears the soft pop of the little bottle being uncorked again. It might just be his fancy, but he thinks he can almost smell the lubricant as Caleb pours more into his hand, sweet and earthy. Next, the bottle capped and the clink of the glass on the bedside table. Molly’s fingers flex against the pillow; he gives an involuntary wriggle of anticipation.

“Ja?” Caleb asks, sounding amused at the little shimmy of Molly’s ass.

“Yeah,” Molly says. He glances back, rewarded with the sight of his pale, slender, beloved Caleb flushed bright red. There’s a pleased sort of smile on his face nonetheless, one that makes Molly’s breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

“Something you want?” Caleb asks dryly, running a hand up from Molly’s flank, up the column of his spine, rubbing his finger against each knob of vertebrae. When he gets to the nape of Molly’s neck he curls his fingers into Molly’s sweat-damp hair and lightly traces a nail at the hairline, prickling Molly’s skin in another shiver, before withdrawing.

Molly closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation, even as Caleb settles back down at the backs of his thighs. “Darling,” he says, with bravado he isn’t necessarily feeling, flayed open with wanting as he is. “You know very well what I want.”

“Do I?” Caleb muses. He spans one hand at the swell of Molly’s arse and spreads him open, earning a gasp. Fuck, Molly needs him, he needs -

“You do,” Molly insists, when Caleb - infuriatingly - stays like that, keeping him open and exposed. He arches his back, tries to spread his knees further. “You know what I want, Caleb. You know what I need.”

“And if I knew you needed a swift kick to the arse?” Caleb says, dryly, but before Molly can retort his lubed-up thumb swipes at Molly’s hole, firm and pressing, and Molly bites his bottom lip until he tastes blood to hold back the litany of pleas threatening to burst forth.

This is payback, it must be, Molly thinks faintly as Caleb draws faint circles around him with the pad of his thumb. He squeezes his eyes shut. His veins are on fire. Behind him he can feel the warm press of Caleb’s thighs against his, the hard heat of Caleb’s own arousal.

“What do you need, Mollymauk?” comes Caleb’s voice a moment later, low and coaxing.

“I -” Molly worries his lower lip, heat flaring up his chest and the back of his neck. “I need -”

He breaks off into a dry gasp when Caleb, without warning, pushes fingers - three of them, _gods_ \- into him. He yields, panting, to the intrusion, feeling like he’s two breaths away from crawling out of his own skin. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Caleb sets an unyielding rhythm, thrusting in long, deep presses that Molly knows is just a teaser, a taste of what he’s going to get.

“What do you need, Mollymauk?” Caleb asks once more. His voice is low, a purr of that burred Zemnian accent all the more pronounced with arousal. It’s pitched quiet and dark, but seems incredibly loud in the little room as Molly realizes the only sounds he’s hearing are the wet squelch of lubed fingers and his own dry breaths.

“I need you,” Molly gasps, because _fuck it_. He needs Caleb like he needs air, like he needs laughter, like he needs sound and color and the blood-rush of battle and the sweet burn of alcohol toasted in victory, like he needs the sun and the moon and the stars. “I need you, Caleb, I need - “

Caleb pulls his fingers out, leaving Molly to groan in protest. There’s a moment’s delay that he can’t even be angry about, because Caleb is fumbling with the little bottle again, stroking his cock until it’s slick with lubricant, and then mercifully there’s the sweet blunt press of his cock against Molly.

“You’ll let me know,” Caleb murmurs, “if -”

He can’t finish the question because Molly, impatient, pushes back against him and then the head of his dick is pressing in, broad enough that there’s a delicious stretch, but no discomfort. As one they exhale shakily, and then there are no more words as Caleb slowly slides into him. Molly can feel the tension in his thighs from holding back and the thought brings tears to the corners of his eyes - this dear man with fire at his fingers pushing against his own self-control, holding back, keeping any pain at bay.

 _I love you_ , comes the faint thought tugging at the back of Molly’s head, as Caleb pushes the last inch home, until his bony hips are pressed against the meat of Molly’s ass. He reaches out to tug the pillow beneath his head, biting into the cool fabric to keep himself from blurting it out.

He can feel Caleb trembling, can feel the raw heat of him inside himself. Blindly he reaches back with a single hand, the angle of his elbow slightly awkward, until Caleb’s fingers catch his. He squeezes once, hoping Caleb feels reassurance through the contact.

Caleb must, for tentatively he drops Molly’s hand and withdraws, and though there isn’t much power behind the following thrust, the press is long and deliciously slow. Molly finds himself torn by the desire to have Caleb taking him apart hard and fast, and realizes he’s slamming against his own walls of self-control. He trusts Caleb to do this, to take this at his own pace. _A two-way street_ , one of them said, so long ago he forgot when or why.

He props himself up on his elbows, already feeling the strain in his shoulders from keeping his head dropped to the pillow, as Caleb sets up a rhythm with slow circles of his hips. The thrust back in is long and slow, and Molly hears Caleb curse in Zemnian as he watches his cock disappearing into Molly’s arse; his hips twitch forward as he bottoms out like he wants to thrust in even further, until the lines between them are dissolved and they’re one panting, sweating mass of wanting.

Molly forgot which bard said it, but the line floats up to the front of his mind, slightly delirious. _A beast with two backs_. But just as suddenly as the thought rises, it’s banished by a jolt of pure sensation as Caleb angles his hips and pushes back in with a delicious stretch, nudging precisely against the little spot within him that makes stars burst behind his eyelids. Molly’s breath stutters out at the roar of blood in his ears, the rush of heat as Caleb does it again - measured thrusts that hit that little foci of sheer pleasure precisely.

Caleb’s only gotten his fingers in Molly twice now, and of course he’s memorized where Molly’s fucking prostate is. _Of course he has_ , Molly thinks, and then doesn’t think all - he can’t, not when Caleb’s cock is dragging back out of him and leaving sparks trailing up and down his spine. Because that is what Caleb does - he remembers, and he treats Molly with more care and patience than he ought to deserve, sometimes.

Molly likes a lot of things. He likes things hard and fast, or molasses-slow and leisurely, the press and burn of fucking for hours. He likes things to hurt, sometimes. But this - this new configuration of care with which Caleb slowly dismantles him is new, and leaves him gasping in a sea of sheets.

He doesn’t know if he deserves it, after everything. But Caleb is giving it to him regardless, and that’s what pushes him over, leaves him reeling.

“Fuck,” Molly pants, closing his eyes tight against the overwhelming rush of sensations. The ache in his chest, the dizzying waterfall roar of pleasure as Caleb nails his prostate again and again with long and careful thrusts, the bruising grip of long, scholar’s fingers on Molly’s hips. “ _Fuck_ , Caleb, I -”

Savagely he bites his bottom lip, keening as he comes without a single finger on his cock, biting until he tastes blood to hold back the litany on the tip of his tongue that had almost slipped past his guard: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

It takes several long seconds for Molly to come back to himself; vaguely he’s aware that his arms are shaking and that Caleb’s motion has slowed, almost stopped completely. With one hand he swipes the pillow - and yes, oops, those are holes from sharp tiefling teeth in the pillowcase - and bolsters it beneath him, creating a long arched line of his spine.

“Darling,” he says, angling his head so he’s not muffled by the pillow. Behind him Caleb is breathing hard through his nose, presumably with the effort of staying still. “You can keep moving.”

“I didn’t know if -” Molly can’t see, but he can imagine the little gesture of confusion Caleb would be making with his hands. “Would it be rude? Are you all right?”

In response, Molly shuffles backwards, fucking himself on Caleb’s dick with a languid roll of his hips that makes Caleb gasp. He’s just this side of too sensitive, and knows if he touched himself right now it’d border on pain rather than pleasure, but the long, slow slide of Caleb’s cock into him feels decadently good, so he does it again. “Come on, Caleb.” He pitches his voice low and gentle. “Want to feel you come in me, darling.”

Even with permission, Caleb holds back at first. The consideration coming from his every motion sends another twisting stab of affection through Molly’s heart; he closes his eyes again, trying to keep himself rooted in sensation. Caleb’s hands are shifting restlessly, like he can’t decide where to put them, and without thinking Molly extends one hand back and blindly grasps until Caleb entwines their fingers together. The angle is hell on his shoulder but Caleb’s bony fingers are warm and his palm damp with sweat; Molly holds tight as Caleb begins to fuck into him with abandon, the ironclad self control eroding away.

Molly, for his part, tries to meet Caleb’s thrusts when he can, pushing back until the sound of flesh meeting flesh is almost loud in the cramped room. It’s almost enough to get him hard again, but not quite - but for once Molly’s content to let Caleb fuck him, eager to feel him chasing his pleasure.

It’s almost over too soon - Caleb stiffens, groaning and squeezing Molly’s hand so tightly he feels the grind of little bones, and then he’s being filled, enough to make him give a feeble moan into the pillow. Molly holds still as Caleb pants, feeling that glorious prick softening within him until they can get around to that slightly awkward business of pulling out, and then immediately rolls onto his back, trying and mostly failing to avoid the wet spot.

His knees and shoulders ache; his hips are bruised from Caleb’s grip. Caleb’s spend is beginning to leak out of him, and he shifts his hips in a vain attempt to delay the inevitable as Caleb himself comes crashing down on the mattress next to him. Molly feels  _magnificent._

It’s several moments before either of them speak, and then they both speak at once.

“That was -”

“Should I -”

Molly breaks off into delighted laughter. Caleb’s bright flush is beginning to fade as the sweat on them both cools, and he’s biting his bottom lip like he wants to say something but can’t decide if he should. Molly takes advantage of the pause by leaning in to kiss him, and then kiss him again for good measure.

“Not bad?” is what Caleb asks, when Molly draws back. And oh, there’s an edge of self-doubt to his voice - quiet, but it’s there, that makes Molly want to draw him into his arms and never stop kissing him. Never let him out of bed, for that.

“Well, Mister Caleb.” Molly does his best to sound overly thoughtful, hoping Caleb gets the joke. “For our first time actually fucking, I’d call it a resounding success.”

At that, Caleb exhales a little snort of laughter. “I suppose it could have gone worse.”

“We both have all of our limbs, still,” Molly points out, unable to keep himself from grinning now. “No blood was shed either!”

“For you, that borders on a miracle,” Caleb points out, and when Molly stops laughing he has to kiss him again.

“Consider yourself lucky for now,” Molly says, after several moments worth of pleasurable diversion. He shifts, wincing. He’s going to have to get up and clean himself up soon, and briefly ponders the possibilities of pulling Caleb into a bath with him. “It may happen in the future.”

Caleb raises a questioning brow. Even though the room is entirely dark now, his eyes are impossibly blue, the kind of summer’s day blue you’d get lost in if you weren’t careful.

But then, Molly has never been good at being especially careful.

“The future, Mister Mollymauk?” Caleb asks. “You sound as if you want to do this again sometime.”

Molly shrugs, though the effect of playing it very casually is rather ruined by the heated gaze he’s unable to hold back. “I think I do. Sometime. Or several times, in fact. All the time, actually, if I’m going to be honest.”

Caleb snorts, and then he’s trailing a fingertip down Molly’s chest, idly tracing a tattooed line. It’s a casual touch, but Molly gives a little shiver, feeling the flesh prickling on his arms and the back of his chest, nipples tightening. And oh, there’s a thought - there has been a tragic lack of nipple play thus far in their physical relationship.

“Well,” Caleb says at last, musing a little, “all we have is time.”

  
***

  
_All we have is time_.

Caleb stares at the frozen ground, his guts hollow. Has he done this? Tempted fate with those damn words? Both times - _all we have is time_ , spoken with a smile in anonymous little rooms with scratchy sheets, spoken while flesh settled and sweat cooled and Mollymauk - Mollymauk next to him. Mollymauk, beautiful, alive.

He wants to feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He wants to feel something other than this frigid numbness. He can’t, can’t muster anything more than a feeble ache, more self-loathing than anything else.

He must have invited this. That is all he can think. Who was he to think that he could have this? That he could deserve Mollymauk? That he could come anywhere near Molly’s vibrancy and color and laughter and not ruin it all?

Something in Caleb’s chest cracks and he has to turn away, start walking. There’s a tug on his coat sleeve - Nott, staring up at him with enormous yellow eyes, her jagged mouth a twist of pain. Very faintly, he can hear Jester crying.

He takes Nott’s hand. Her knobbly fingers squeeze his, and when he looks down at her, still ragged and worn from hard-won battle, there’s a question in her eyes.

“I -” There are suddenly rocks in Caleb’s throat. He struggles to push his voice past them. Then something fractures in his chest, and rises up, burning and freezing and tearing him to shreds.

“I think I loved him,” Caleb whispers, and then the tears are there, burning past the numb.


End file.
